


Disillusionment

by clarinetalto4ever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Family, Gen, M/M, Pirates, References to Suicide, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarinetalto4ever/pseuds/clarinetalto4ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Sherlock Holmes was thirty-one years old, his brother Mycroft had become his archenemy.</p><p>John Watson insisted that “real” people didn’t have archenemies, but really, where was the fun in that?"</p><p>The relationship between the Holmes brothers has never been something one could dub "normal."  A fic exploring their brotherhood across their lives.  A bit of JohnLock near the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Years Old

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I find the Holmes brothers’ relationship to be fascinating. Not much is said about them in the canon, but the BBC series leaves a lot to be interpreted. It’s rare that I write something besides romance, but this has been a fresh experience for me and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing this. I hope you enjoy reading it half as much.
> 
> Warnings for drug use and (supposed) suicide. You can imagine Johnlock at the end if you squint. Edit: Actually. You don’t have to squint anymore.
> 
> Thanks to wendalee and AnthemGlass for beta-ing.

When Sherlock Holmes was five years old, he believed that his older brother Mycroft could fix anything.

It was a warm summer afternoon and Big Brother was teaching Sherlock to ride his bicycle. Sherlock was still learning with training wheels on his bike and wasn’t quite comfortable with balancing on it yet.

Big Brother would walk along holding on to the handlebars with Sherlock making sure he didn’t fall. Sherlock felt warm and safe with Mycroft’s arms around Sherlock’s much smaller frame.

They would ride up and down the street together, back and forth, to and fro. Finally, Mycroft said, “Would you like to try it by yourself, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up at Big Brother nervously, not sure if he was ready to try this on his own. But Mycroft’s face was so loving and encouraging that Sherlock swallowed his fear and nodded.

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll hold on for a little while, then let go, ok?”

Sherlock nodded again. He brought his feet up to the pedals and got ready. A thought occurred to him and he threw his feet down quickly. “My, wait! You’ll tell me when you are going to let go, right?”

“Of course, Sherlock. I’ll always let you know.”

The first couple of times Sherlock tried to cycle when Mycroft let go, he automatically stopped as soon as Big Brother gave the quiet “3, 2, 1.” But, My was ever so patient with him.

“Would you like to stop for today, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to Mycroft with his blue-grey eyes wide, “No! I can do this! One more time, My.”

“Alright, Sherlock. Here we go.”

Sherlock was determined. He would prove to Big Brother that he was a big boy and could handle riding by himself. He looked ahead, his face grim with sheer focus unnatural for a five year old. “Let’s go, My.”

They took off down the road together and got going at a gentle pace. Mycroft leaned in closer to his little brother. “Ready, Sherlock? 3, 2, 1, now.”

Sherlock felt Mycroft’s presence disappear, but he told himself to keep going.

And, he did! He was riding by himself! He was flying! He was – 

The next thing Sherlock knew was the pavement. The shock of it all was enough to stop any tears from falling. All he heard was Big Brother’s voice. “Are you ok, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down at the source of the pain – his knee. The sight of it made his stomach turn a bit. It was skinned up, bloody, and bruised. Tears threatened to breach Sherlock’s eyes and he looked up at Mycroft.

“You’ll be ok, Sherlock. Let’s go get that cleaned up; what do you say?”

Sherlock just nodded.

“How about a piggy back ride back to the house?”

Sherlock smiled.

XOX

Sherlock had gotten a lot better at flying up and down the street without Mycroft. He had even taken to tying his pirate action figure to the front handle bars and pretending to be sailing the seven seas.

It was on his voyage in the Caribbean that he fell down once more. Now, Sherlock had fallen down on occasion since that first time, but he had learned to catch his fall and avoid more skinned knees.

However, on this fall, his pirate, having not been quite tied down effectively as usual, went flying down the road. Sherlock picked himself off of the pavement and went to retrieve his toy, only to find that the head had separated from the body. Sherlock was crushed. He gathered his bike and slumped back home slowly.

He stowed his bike in the garage and took the two pieces of his favorite toy in the house. He was prepared to bring them to Mummy and say goodbye to the cherished toy, when he remembered.

Mycroft could fix anything.

Sherlock looked at the clock. The short hand was pointing to the three. My ought to home, or nearly there. In fact, it was then that Sherlock heard the door open.

“Mummy, I’m home.”

“Good to know, Mycroft,” she called from her office, where she was always on the phone.

Sherlock sprinted to the door. “My! My!”

Mycroft turned to his little brother as he was taking off his shoes. “Well, hello, Sherlock. What are you all in a bustle about?”

In answer, Sherlock raised his hands that contained the two pieces of his pirate.

“Oh, Sherlock. It will be ok. Tell you what. Close your eyes and count to three.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Big Brother, but the gleam in My’s eyes convinced Sherlock.

“1 . . . 2 . . . 3” Sherlock wasted no time opening his eyes. He shrieked with glee. Mycroft was holding out his pirate – in one piece.

Yes, when Sherlock was five years old, Mycroft could fix anything.


	2. Eleven Years Old

When Sherlock Holmes was eleven years old, he believed that his big brother Mycroft could fix anything.

School had been both easy and difficult for Sherlock. He loved learning, even though it was sometimes tedious when the teachers had to go over things time and time again for the other students.

What made it difficult was two-fold. First, he didn’t make friends easily. He never had really. But when he was younger, it didn’t bother him too much. There was always a book to read at lunch or a bug to observe during recess. And when Sherlock went home, My would help him with his homework. Sometimes on Sundays, the two brothers would go get ice cream together. Those were Sherlock’s favorite.

But then, and this was the second reason, Mycroft left. He had gone to University earlier that fall and Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. When he got home from school, there was nobody to help him with his homework. (Not that he needed it. It used to be an excuse to spend time with Big Brother. Little did he know that Mycroft saw right through the antics, but allowed them anyway.) Mummy was just in her office on the phone. Father never got home until late, if at all.

It was then that Sherlock felt the pang for friends. But, when he tried to ask Sally if she wanted to go watch the big spider over by the elm tree with him, she shrieked and called him a freak. And when he asked Mike if he wanted to read this book when he was done so they could talk about it, Mike told him it was boring because there were no pictures.

Soon after, a group of bigger boys began ganging up on Sherlock on his walks home. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he had done to them, but they would push him down as they walked by, call him a weirdo, and if he wasn’t careful, take his pocket change. (Pocket change he was saving up for when Mycroft came home and they could go for ice cream.)

Mycroft’s calls were a welcome distraction, but Mummy and Father were always there, asking Mycroft questions about his classes, and all Sherlock ever got to say was hello.

And so, as November drew to a close, Sherlock couldn’t help but begin to count down the days to Mycroft’s return for the Christmas holidays. School seemed to drag endlessly on and on and the bullies seemed meaner and meaner.

But finally, the day was there. Sherlock knew when he got home, Mycroft would be waiting for him! He left school as fast as he could and was so excited, he forgot to try to avoid the mean boys down the street.

They found him though and pushed him to the ground. The tall one said he was strange, and the group of boys chortled in agreement. But then, the biggest and meanest of the bunch held up a hand to stop them. Sherlock thought he had found a reprieve, but then the older boy spoke. “He may be a strange little bugger, but that scarf sure is nice. Hand it over, kid, and we’ll let you go for the day.”

Sherlock’s pulse shot up in nervousness. Not this scarf. It was the scarf My had given him for his birthday last year. But he did so want to get home and see My. And that bully was clenching his hand into a menacing looking fist. Trying not to think about it, Sherlock removed the scarf, threw it at the bigger boy, and ran off before they could say anything else.

As he continued running towards home, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that My’s homecoming was now tarnished by being bullied into giving up his favorite scarf. But Sherlock was a determined eleven year old, and he was going to make sure that Mycroft didn’t know what was happening. He had successfully hidden the problems from his parents; My shouldn’t be any harder.

He crashed through the front door and called out for his Big Brother. Sherlock ran into the living room and saw the familiar head of perfectly trimmed hair. Mycroft turned around from where he was sitting on the couch. “Sherlock,” he said with a smile.

Sherlock’s face broke into a huge grin and he jumped into My’s arms waiting on a hug. Nothing could take the smile off of the younger boy’s face. He felt so safe and warm in his older brother’s arms. Everything was perfect.

They finally broke away and Sherlock immediately began telling Mycroft of everything he had missed over the last few months. The toad that he had found on the side of the road. The way that baking soda and vinegar reacted when you mixed them together. How his teacher was obviously having an affair with the principal.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t understand. Wasn’t it obvious? He told My so. They way they acted together. The pale spot of white on his teacher’s ring finger whenever the principal came to observe the class (which was more often than any other teacher).

Mycroft smiled gently. “I don’t know why it surprises me, but you still do, Sherlock. Say, why don’t you stay awhile and take off your coat?”

Oh, thought Sherlock. My coat is still on. He moved to take it off, and out of habit, went to take off his scarf, and immediately earlier that afternoon came flooding back to him.

Mycroft, of course, noticed the flicker of emotion on Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, it’s a bit cold to be out without a scarf. Did you forget it this morning?”

As much as Sherlock wanted to lie so as not to hurt Mycroft’s feelings about having lost the scarf he gave him, he just couldn’t. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Did you leave it at school?”

Sherlock couldn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes. He shook his head again.

Mycroft knelt down in front of his little brother and put his hands on Sherlock’s arms. “Did somebody take it from you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hesitated, then slowly nodded his head. He still wouldn’t look at his older brother out of fear of breaking down into tears, but if he had, he would have noticed the look of rage and anger that flashed across his brother’s face.

“Tell me about it, Sherlock.”

And so, Sherlock did. Told him of the mean boys who pushed him and took his money. Told him how Sally didn’t want to look at the spider, and how Mike didn’t want to read with him. And before he knew what was happening, he was telling him how much he missed Mycroft. How he never got to talk to him on the phone. And how it just wasn’t the same.

“Oh, Sherlock, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, My! Father says I should grow up anyway. I shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

“No, I’m glad you did. We’ll fix it, ok? How about for now, we go get some ice cream? It’s not Sunday, but it can be our secret.”

It sounded like the best idea in the world to Sherlock.

Mycroft was off for the Christmas holidays, but sadly, Sherlock still had another week of school. So the next morning, Sherlock rose early to go back for one last torturous week. He was putting on his coat when he noticed next to it, his scarf. He thought for a moment that it might be just another of the same kind, but when he looked closer he saw the jam stain he had gotten on it a couple weeks ago. It was his scarf. Sherlock smiled. Yes, his big brother could fix anything.

Indeed, on his way home, nobody bothered him. For the first time in months, Sherlock felt safe and happy walking home from school.

XOX

The week finally ended and it was Christmas time! Sherlock was ecstatic. He had all this time to spend with Mycroft, even if he did disappear for hours at a time to see his school friends. It was better than nothing and just knowing that My was in the next room over made Sherlock’s heart swell with happiness.

It was a few days before Christmas and Sherlock, Mycroft, and Mummy were sitting around the living room each reading on their own. It was nights like this that Sherlock loved. Nobody felt the need to talk like his classmates did sometimes during lunch time. They just sat in comfortable silence.

Usually anyway.

It was on this particular night that Mummy put down her book and turned to her younger son. “Sherlock, dear, why don’t you pull out your violin and show Mycroft what you’ve learned in the last few months?”

Sherlock scowled. Mummy had made him take violin lessons this year. Sherlock hated them. The lesson teacher was old and could barely hear him when he asked questions. Much as he had liked music lessons in school, it was becoming a chore for him to learn. And he had been so excited.

Mummy caught on to the scowl and replied with a look of her own. Sherlock sulked off to his room and retrieved his violin case. He pulled it out carefully and started to try to tune it like he was taught in lessons. It was still difficult for him and if he didn’t get past this point, his playing would sound awful.

“Sherlock, would you like some help?” Mycroft asked softly.

Sherlock looked up. Of course, Mycroft had learned to play violin. How could he forget the sounds coming from his bedroom that sounded like a cat was dying? He handed it over. The quicker he got it tuned, the quicker he could play and be done with this.

But My was nothing if not efficient. Asking if Sherlock wanted help was not the same as offering to do it for Sherlock. Mycroft patiently walked his younger brother through tuning the violin, but in a different and more interesting way than his boring lesson teacher. It made more sense now. Mycroft explained it mathematically and showed him how each string was thinner than the one before it and how, because they were thinner, they were pitched higher.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. He didn’t know it could be this interesting. They finished tuning and Sherlock began playing the few Christmas songs he knew by plucking the strings. (He hadn’t learned to use the bow yet, but he was itching to.) Mummy of course applauded nicely and politely praised her son’s performance, but then the phone in her office rang. “Sorry, boys, I really need to answer that.” She rushed off and it was just Sherlock and Mycroft.

The younger boy went to put the violin back in its case. Those few moments with the interesting information about tuning wasn’t exactly enough to convince Sherlock it was still worth learning. Mycroft could tell.

“You don’t seem too excited about playing, Sherlock. Do you not like it?”

Sherlock hesitated. “When Ms. McCabe isn’t chattering on uselessly, I do kind of like it. But it gets boring sometimes.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding. “I presume you’ve been learning to read music as well, yes?”

A nod from Sherlock.

A pause. “You like math, do you not, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. I find it all wonderful.”

“Do you know that music and math are inherently related?”

Sherlock stopped in shock and slowly shook his head in fascination. “Really?”

“Come here, Sherlock. Let me show you.”

And My showed him for the next thirty minutes about how if you divide a string in half, it creates an octave. And divide it again and you get the fifth. Sherlock wasn’t sure he understood all of it, but he gathered enough to know that it was all so interesting that he wanted to learn more.

As exciting as it was, Sherlock’s eyes eventually started drooping until he had fallen asleep on the couch. Mycroft chuckled and put the violin away for him, then carried him upstairs. He woke Sherlock up just enough to change into his pajamas and then went to tuck him – something he hadn’t done in years. Mycroft was about to leave when he heard a sleepy Sherlock.

“Thank you, My.”

“For what, Sherlock?”

“The scarf . . . the violin. I like it again.”

“You’re welcome Sherlock. Good night.”

“Good ni-“ But Sherlock was fast asleep.

XOX

It was Christmas Eve. Sherlock was a bit old to believe in St. Nick, but nevertheless, Christmas still excited him. He couldn’t help but hope that Mummy and Father had caught on to the chemistry set he had pointed out the other day while they were out shopping. He would have a whole week before going back to school to mix things up and see what happened.

He was also very excited for Mycroft to open his gift from Sherlock. With a bit of help from Mummy, Sherlock had specially picked out a solid black umbrella. It was much rainier in London where Mycroft lived now than here at home. Sherlock had even had the idea to put Mycroft’s initials on it. Mummy thought it was a wonderful idea and had it done for him. Sherlock hoped he liked it.

They were anxiously waiting for Father to get home so they could sit around the fire and drink warm cider before going to bed. It was Christmas tradition and Sherlock didn’t want it broken. Mummy sat anxiously on the couch with a book that she hadn’t turned the page in for a half hour. Mycroft and Sherlock sat quietly playing hand after hand of Go Fish.

But it was getting later and later. It was already an hour and a half past Sherlock’s usual bed time and he was afraid that if Father didn’t come home soon, he would have to go to bed and miss out on the cider.

“Mummy,” Mycroft eventually said, “maybe we should go ahead and have some cider.”

Mummy sighed and nodded. She went off to the kitchen and began warming it up.

Sherlock was devastated. “But, My! Father isn’t here yet.”

Mycroft’s eyes looked sad and dark. “No, he’s not.”

The three drank cider around the fire and even joined in a few carols, but Sherlock could tell that he was the only one putting any kind of feeling behind it. Soon, even he lost the spirit and they fell into silence.

Mummy stood up and collected their mugs. “Time for bed, Sherlock. Mycroft, see to it for me, please?”

“Course, Mummy.”

Sherlock couldn’t argue too much. He was pretty tired, having been up for almost two hours beyond the norm. He was brushing his teeth when he heard the slam of the front door and a loud “Happy Christmas.”

Sherlock made to spit his paste and run downstairs quickly, but he felt Mycroft’s strong arm stop him.

“Not tonight, Sherlock. Let him and Mummy talk. You’ll see him in the morning.”

The younger boy didn’t quite understand, but knew when he could push My’s buttons and when he ought to listen to him. This was one of those times he knew he should listen.

The yelling started as he was climbing into bed. Mummy’s shrill, high voice and Father’s lower, not quite understandable, voice. It sounded like Father had the lisp that Sherlock had worked so hard to overcome some years back. His words were all mushed together, which seemed to make Mummy yell even more.

“Try to drown them out and go to sleep, Sherlock. There will be presents in the morning, after all,” Mycroft said gently.

“Can’t you make them stop, My? I was hoping they wouldn’t be like this with you at home.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised. “This happens often?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Every so often. Even more so when Father is gone on business trips.”

“I see. Tell you what, Sherlock, how about we close the door and read together for awhile? Try to forget about it for right now?” Mycroft said softly.

“So, you can’t make them stop, My?”

Mycroft’s sad eyes turned to Sherlock’s big, hopeful ones. “No, I’m afraid I can’t, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt as if his heart had broken in two. If Mycroft couldn’t stop it, would Mummy and Father always fight? Or worse, would one of them leave like he heard his classmates talking about Chris’ parents?

Christmas was different that year. Sherlock could tell that Mummy and Father were putting up a front for his sake, but something was wrong. A few weeks later, Sherlock was back in school and Mycroft had left for London again.

Mycroft had taken what Sherlock told him at the beginning of the holidays to heart. Sherlock began getting calls from his older brother once a week on Sundays (in lieu of ice cream) and My talked to him for a whole half hour with no parents.

What Sherlock didn’t mention was that it was because Father was gone even more now. Even if he was there, he and Mummy were fighting or not talking at all. 

When Sherlock Holmes was eleven years old, he believed his big brother Mycroft could fix most things.


	3. Twenty-three Years Old

When Sherlock Holmes was twenty-three years old, he believed that his older brother Mycroft would fix most things.

Sherlock and the “real world” had not gotten along too well. Things declined for him when his parents divorced shortly after he turned twelve years old. He became even more socially outcast than he already was and buried himself into his school work. Chemistry and math were his solace, but as he grew older, even they weren’t enough to keep his brilliant mind engaged. He started smoking when he was sixteen and by the time he graduated, he was going through a pack of cigarettes a day.

It was only under the instance and constant nagging of Mycroft had he succeeded in applying and getting into University. At first the new places, new people to observe, and new classes had stimulated Sherlock’s ever racing mind enough to keep him occupied. But the novelty wore off after the first year and by then, even nicotine wasn’t enough to fulfill the constant need for activity.

During his third year at University, he had ended up at a party through an acquaintance, Victor Trevor. Sherlock normally avoided these types of social gatherings, but on the rare occasion that he attended, he did find observing the people and the range of reactions to alcohol to be very interesting. While there, someone had offered him some cocaine to shoot. Ever the scientist who was curious to try new things, Sherlock accepted. And, in doing so, he found the stimulant he had been looking for.

Further abuse of the substance landed Sherlock Holmes in a jail cell some three years later. He had accidentally been witness to a crime and by the time Scotland Yard had showed up, he had his coat off and was proceeding to analyze and lay out the details for the investigator on duty. Unfortunately, the small bag of cocaine he had just purchased fell out of his coat pocket when he went to pick it up. The investigator, a Gregory Lestrade, while appreciative of his help on the case, was forced to arrest him.

Sherlock had been in the cell for a few hours now. He had declined a phone call because the only person in his life worth calling would be Mycroft. His older brother would figure it out quickly enough, and Sherlock didn’t feel like taking the time to deal with the conversation on the phone.

Instead, he took the time to think over the crime scene. It had made Sherlock feel alive. It was exciting and engaging and . . . entertaining. For the first time in years, he hadn’t felt the need for a substance to engage his mind like chemistry and math had for all those years. When he had learned all he could from classes, he tried to run experiments of his own in the chemistry labs, but after a few things accidentally blew up, the professors had forbidden him from any further trials. This, along with his growing tendency to spend hours in his flat thinking about other experiments he would like to run while high on cocaine led to his dismissal from University.

He could still remember telling his family. Mummy was terribly upset with him, told him if he didn’t find a job, she would cut him off, and all around quit talking to him, having disgraced the Holmes family. His father had admonished him, but otherwise didn’t care too much (and continued paying the bills). It was Mycroft, however, whose response had truly shocked Sherlock.

_“Yes, brother? To what do I owe this lovely phone call?”_

_“They kicked me out of school, Mycroft.”_

_A deep sigh on the other end of the line. “Sherlock.”_

_“Said I wasn’t going to classes enough. I still could have passed them with my eyes shut.”_

_“It’s not the point, Sherlock.”_

_“Oh, who cares. It’s all transport anyway. It’s not as if a little piece of paper will make much difference in the world to find a job.”_

_“And what job do you want to do? I hope you don’t still want to be a pirate.”_

_Sherlock scoffed. “It was a perfectly legitimate occupation. I could have my own boat, sail on the ocean by myself with no idiots around to deal with, and live off of supplies I ravaged from other ships. But this is beside the point. Mummy is terribly displeased and both her and I wish for you to get me back in school.”_

_“I can’t just tell the University to let you back in. They are a private organization and the government holds little authority over them.”_

_“Mycroft, don’t be absurd. We both know you hold enough power in the British government to overthrow a third world country. You’re telling me it’s too much for you to get your little brother back in school?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I don’t believe you. You just don’t want to.”_

_“It’s not that easy, Sherlock.”_

_“Yes, it is. Fix this for me, Mycroft.”_

_Mycroft’s voice became more agitated. “I can’t just put this back together for you like some action figure from when you were five years old. This is real life; it’s just not that easy. You’ll have to apply for re-admittance in a year or so. In the meantime, I suggest getting a job.”_

_Another scoff. “Mycroft. Besides, Father will continue paying the bills. He didn’t even care that I had gotten kicked out.”_

_“I do care though. Sherlock, you’ve got to get things sorted. Don’t think I don’t know about the cocaine. You need to stop with it. You’ll end up in jail or worse, overdosed on some back road.”_

_“Whatever, Mycroft. I don’t need to get back into school anyway. As I said before, the piece of paper is worthless. And as for the cocaine, nobody in this world would care if I ended up dead on the side of the road.”_

_Sherlock hung up. He hadn’t heard the soft “I would.”_

That had been a few months ago. Ever since, he had just delved further into cocaine. Occasionally, a chemistry graduate student would find him through acquaintances he had left at University, requesting his help on their research, and he would find his mind engaged for a few days, but it inevitably ended, and he was back to the drugs. At least the students paid handsomely for the help. Father’s money only covered the basics, of which cocaine was not, as far as he was concerned.

But, yes. The crime scene had been different. It made sense though, didn’t it? Chemistry was all about adding everything up to get the desired result. Perhaps solving crimes could be the answer. It warranted further investigation.

But another hour or two passed by and Sherlock was beginning to feel the effects of having not shot up in awhile. Nothing too serious at the moment, but he had the itch that demanded to be scratched.

Another twenty minutes and he heard the clang of doors opening and footsteps approaching. “Up you get. Your bail has been posted,” the officer said gruffly.

Sherlock smirked. He knew Mycroft would figure it out eventually.

He collected his things, minus the cocaine obviously, and left the building to find a black car waiting supposedly for him. Sure enough, the moment he turned to head in the opposite direction, a solemn voice called out to him. He attempted to ignore it, but soon found his path blocked in all directions. He sighed and realized that it was foolish to assume he could avoid this entirely.

The car ride with Mycroft’s associates to his office was a silent one.

XOX

Any expectation Sherlock had of a lecture and slap of the hand before being sent on his way from his older brother was dashed when the car pulled up to Mycroft’s flat rather than the discreet building which housed his office. Wary of the situation, Sherlock hesitated before entering the place of residence, but the ever-enigmatic Anthea, whom he had ridden over with, quickly ushered him in.

Once inside, he wished he had avoided the black car with all his might. This was not just some quick talk Mycroft had planned. It was a lot more than that.

There were people everywhere. The small living room had been transformed from the high backed chairs to what looked to be a hospital room. There was a big bed in the middle of the floor with tubes and bags of liquid all lined up waiting for . . .

Damn it, Sherlock thought. This was truly no mere lecture. This was an . . . intervention. In the space of the ten seconds he had been standing there, this all flashed through his mind. He turned to leave quickly before getting roped into this, but only to find two burly men blocking his path.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes. The elder Mr. Holmes has requested you stay here until he can speak with you,” said the uglier of the two, in Sherlock’s opinion.

“Speak with me? It appears he has a lot more in mind than just to speak with me,” Sherlock snarled.

“Sherlock. No need to be rude. This is for your own good,” Mycroft interrupted as he came down the stairs from what was presumably his bedroom.

“Mycroft, you have no right to do this to me,” Sherlock exclaimed at his older brother. “Let me go.” He tried to push his way past the two thugs, but this time, they grabbed him and held him in place.

Mycroft’s face was perfectly impassive as it usually was. He ignored the younger man’s heated exclamations and struggle to get away and continued to sign paperwork which allowed his younger brother’s rehabilitation to take place there in his own flat. “You know, Sherlock, I had a chat with the Detective Inspector whom you helped out. He was very impressed with you.”

Sherlock grunted an acknowledgment, but continued to struggle.

“He said,” Mycroft continued, “that you would be welcomed at Scotland Yard if you cleaned up your act and finished your degree. Said they could use someone with your eye for observation.”

“Why would I ever want to work at Scotland Yard. They’re a bunch of idiots who can’t see past the end of their own noses and wouldn’t be able to find a murderer if he walked up to them and threatened them with an already bloodied knife.” Sherlock managed to incapacitate one of the thugs by kneeing him in the groin, but a third man soon replaced the one on the ground in agony.

“Sherlock, you might as well accept that you are going to go through this rehabilitation. Cooperating will make things so much easier. As to Scotland Yard, you never were the type to go for a mainstream job, were you? But you’re a creative enough man. Make up your own job if you have to.”

Mycroft made an almost imperceptible signal to a nurse that was standing nearby. The next thing Sherlock knew was the prick of a needle injecting him, not with the cocaine his body so desperately craved, but with something that knocked him out completely.

XOX

_Shivering. Must get warmer._

_It’s bloody hot. Can’t stop sweating._

_Vomiting again._

_And again._

_Every hour._

_Make it stop._

_Mycroft, make it stop._

_Mycroft. Fix this._

_Fix it, Mycroft._

_It doesn’t matter._

_He won’t fix it._

_Mycroft can’t fix anything anymore._

_He couldn’t get me back into school when Mummy and I pleaded._

_He couldn’t stop our parents from getting a divorce._

_He left me when he went to University._

_Left me._

_And now he won’t fucking stop this._

_Make it stop, Mycroft!_

_Leave me now, just like you always have._

_Why won’t you just fucking leave me now?_

_Hot._

_Cold._

_Vomit._

XOX

It took all of Mycroft’s strength not to give into his brother’s pleas. He was sure that that Sherlock didn’t realize he was talking out loud. Never would Sherlock Holmes admit to begging his brother for anything.

But every word from Sherlock’s mouth killed Mycroft inside. As he kept vigil by his brother’s bed, the nurses constantly reminded him that he was doing the right thing.

Sherlock was right in a way though. He had failed his little brother, hadn’t he? He had gone off to University and left Sherlock home alone with parents who fought and finally divorced. And then with a mother who was too busy making business calls and a father who picked him every other weekend, just so Sherlock could sit by himself in a different location.

Mycroft just always assumed Sherlock would grow out of it. That he would make a couple of good friends who would ease the awkward teenage years.

He should have stepped in sooner. Should have made more calls, more visits.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m trying to do right by you now. I’m trying,” Mycroft whispered, all the while knowing Sherlock wasn’t even slightly aware of what he was saying.

When Sherlock Holmes was twenty-three years old, he walked out of his older brother’s flat sober from cocaine. But he believed that the man he was walking away from couldn’t fix a damn thing.


	4. Thirty-One

When Sherlock Holmes was thirty-one years old, his brother Mycroft had become his arch-enemy.

John Watson insisted that “real” people didn’t have arch-enemies, but really, where was the fun in that?

It had been an interesting eight years since Sherlock had dubbed Mycroft that in his head. After getting clean, he went straight to Scotland Yard and demanded to talk to Gregory Lestrade, the detective whom he had helped all those months before. The older man was skeptical of Sherlock and his claims of being clean, but accepted his mobile number nonetheless, and agreed to call if he found any cases where Sherlock might be of assistance.

During the months spent at Mycroft’s, Father had remained oblivious of Sherlock’s whereabouts, so the money continued to be transferred. With the sudden abundance of money, Sherlock poured himself into forensics, chemistry, and the history of crime. In his small flat, he began creating a filing system with everything he could ever possibly need to know. He reorganized his mind palace and developed new rooms containing all kinds of new information related to crimes and mysteries waiting to be solved.

When Lestrade still hadn’t called, Sherlock began solving cold cases. He solved the Jack the Ripper, the Servant Girl Annihilator, and Zodiac murders in his spare time.

Finally, his mobile rang with Lestrade flashing on the screen. He dashed off to the crime scene and had it solved before the forensic idiot had a chance to do anything. The check that went along with it was nothing to blush at either.

He started a website to get more clients and dubbed himself a “Consulting Detective.” Only one in the world since he invented the job.

But the dreariness between cases was so utterly boring. There were times he almost reached for the cocaine. It was only Lestrade’s promise of no cases if he went back to drugs that stopped him. Nicotine eventually became a substitute.

It wasn’t until he met John Watson that things really began to change. John was . . . fascinating to say the least. Sherlock couldn’t predict him like he could most people.

And John loved the cases. He’d run after criminals, examine a body, and run around the city with Sherlock like nobody else ever had.

John paid attention to him – something nobody else except Mycroft’s infuriating stalking had. Mummy and Father surely hadn’t. But John complimented him (Fantastic! Amazing!) and even had most of his blog dedicated to their adventures.

For the first time in Sherlock’s life, he had a friend. Someone he didn’t mind being in the same room with for hours at a time. Someone who wasn’t a complete idiot. But most of all, someone who didn’t hate him. Didn’t leave him.

But with that friendship, Sherlock found, came sentiment and . . . feelings. Feelings he didn’t want to deal with. Feelings that were in the way. And if it weren’t for these damned emotions, he wouldn’t be standing on the roof of Bart’s Hospital about to convince his best friend that he was committing suicide.

He had to do it to save John’s life though. It hit him like a brick when he woke up in Bart’s morgue by himself. Would John ever forgive him? He couldn’t think about that now. He had to track down the assassins.

Molly let him stay at her small flat while he gathered information before moving forward. There was no way he was going to his brother, even though he was sure Mycroft was well aware that he was alive.

It was a bit awkward the day that Molly left him at the flat to go to his own funeral. He had half a mind to disguise himself and go, but Molly managed to talk him out of it. But Molly couldn’t stop him from going to his grave just to see John one more time. To remind himself of why he was doing this.

The next few months involved long nights spent in questionable places, dangerous skirmishes that John would not have approved of, and dancing around using cocaine again without John to keep him on the straight and narrow.

John. The man was always on his mind. Equally so was how he was going to let John know he was still alive. How would he react? With joy? Unbelief? Anger? Yet again, Sherlock could not predict it.

Finally, it was down to just one Sebastian Moran before Sherlock could return to the land of the living. All he had to do was track down Moriarty’s right hand man. In the midst of his contemplation, a text he had not expected came through.

I have information on Colonel Moran’s whereabouts.

It made Sherlock scowl. Just give me the damn information.

Stop by my flat and I’ll fill you in.

Damn Mycroft. Why must he make things difficult now? But as much as he was loathe to admit it, even though he could probably get the information Mycroft had on his own, it would take significantly longer. Enduring an hour of Mycroft would get him home to John that much sooner.

And so, he found himself standing at his brother’s flat in the middle of a rainy autumn night. Sherlock stood outside getting wet while he debated with himself as to whether or not he truly wanted to knock on the door and be forced to deal with his brother. The decision was finally made for him when the door opened to reveal Mycroft.

“Stop standing out in the rain and just come in already,” Mycroft said drily.

Sherlock huffed and brushed past him. “I don’t suppose you could make this as quick as possible and just hand me the bloody information.”

Mycroft put out a hand for Sherlock’s wet coat. The two engaged in a staring contest until the chills running up Sherlock’s spine won out and he grudgingly handed over his wet things. The settled in the living room in front of a fire to a stony silence.

“I don’t suppose you’ll fill me in on everything you’ve been doing the past few months, will you?” Mycroft asked after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not fooling me, Mycroft. You know exactly where and what I’ve been doing. You never could keep your large nose out of my business.”

Mycroft looked long and hard at his younger brother before speaking again. “Colonel Moran was recently spotted in the East End not two days ago. My informants have told me that they suspect he knows you are alive and will go after Dr. Watson in the very near future.”

“Damn it, Mycroft,” Sherlock swore as he moved to leave. “You’ve wasted time making me come here and talk to you while John’s life may be in danger?”

“Dear brother, do you think I would have left the good doctor unattended? Though he and I are not on social terms, I care enough about you that I would not see any harm come to him,” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock scoffed, but stopped putting on his coat. “Care about me? Since when have you ever cared about me, Mycroft. Maybe when I was five years old, but where has your care been in the last decade or so?”

Mycroft lost control of his emotionless face for an instant and quick flashes of hurt and anger passed through his eyes. “You have turned a blind eye to my care. What do you call bailing you out of prison? The countless favors I called in so you could finish the last year of your degree. Helping you get sober from cocaine when you were throwing your life away?”

“I never asked to get clean from cocaine,” Sherlock insisted stubbornly. “You’ve been meddling in my life ever since Mother and Father divorced claiming your care and concern. And your interference has only doubled since Father’s death last year. The constant surveillance using the CCTV and countless other cameras I know are in 221B. Don’t think I don’t see the occasional black car following me. You even offered to pay John money in order to keep up with my activities. I’m a grown man and I’ve managed just fine these past few months without you.” Sherlock turned to leave. “Thank you for the information, brother,” he yelled back with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

XOX

The events surrounding Sherlock’s return from the grave and Colonel Moran’s arrest were eventful to say the least. Sherlock sported a black eye for awhile after a punch from John, who went through a plethora of emotions when he realized Sherlock was alive including anger and relief among others.

Nevertheless, life seemed to settle back in at 221B. Sherlock was pleased when John finally moved back in after taking a week or so to stew in his fury. Sherlock certainly couldn’t blame him though.

With Sherlock’s triumphant return to society, cases came flooding in. Everyone wanted him to solve something for him, but Sherlock mostly found all the cases dull. The jewelry had just fallen behind the armoire and the jealous ex-lover threw that person into the Thames.

Boring.

What wasn’t boring, however, was John. The doctor, having lost Sherlock once, wasn’t about to let a second chance pass him by. The two gingerly embarked on a relationship of sorts. John had never been with a man before, and Sherlock, well. Sherlock hadn’t really been with anyone before. The learning curve was steep for the both of them.

They were cuddled on the couch one evening; Sherlock’s head in John’s lap, who was absently twirling his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and talking about his day. It was a sort of ritual for the two of them. John would talk, and Sherlock would listen, or at least pretend to. John was fully aware of this and didn’t mind. Sherlock just enjoyed hearing John’s voice, but on this particular night, a single word stood out in John’s monologue.

“. . . Mycroft . . .”

Sherlock sat up suddenly, throwing John off-balance. “Mycroft, what about Mycroft?” he asked sharply.

John smirked. “I thought you didn’t really listen when I went off like this sometimes.”

Sherlock huffed, “I don’t. What about Mycroft?”

“I was just commenting how I haven’t really seen or heard from him since moving back in here. I half expected to be kidnapped again, or at least get an ominous text.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

John continued, “And when I was cleaning the other day, I noticed the dust on the bookshelf.” John smiled tenderly, remembering their last conversation about dust. “As you know, dust is eloquent. Anyway, there was a blank spot up in one of the corners. It looked like a camera had been removed. Unless you have a new arch-enemy I don’t know about, I was thinking it might have been one of Mycroft’s cameras that he took down. Can’t imagine why he’d do that though, can you?”

Sherlock’s first thought was to wonder how John had noticed this and he hadn’t. It was an easier thought than trying to figure out what Mycroft’s actions, or rather lack thereof, meant. Sherlock tried to shrug it off. “He’s probably going to install a better camera tomorrow when we’re at that dreadful Yard party you’re making me go to.”

John smiled. “If you say so.”

XOX

It was days later and Sherlock couldn’t get John’s observations out of his head. He began noticing them too. No black cars following him. No CCTV cameras moving to monitor his movements. This was so out of character for Mycroft. It almost . . . worried Sherlock.

It pestered him so much that he wasn’t getting things done. Experiments went untended and cases took seconds longer to solve. Even John noticed.

“Why don’t you just go talk to him, Sherlock?” he asked one morning over breakfast.

“Hm? Talk to who, John?”

John snorted. “I may not be a consulting detective, but you’ve been off ever since I mentioned Mycroft backing off on all the surveillance. It’s bugging you. Go talk to him.”

“John, I’m astounded you picked up on this. Perhaps there is a future in detective work for you yet.”

“You’re changing the subject. And you’re just annoyed that I picked up on social cues that still elude you.”

Sherlock ignored him, but when John left the flat for work later that day, he hailed a cab for Mycroft’s office.

XOX

Sherlock sighed as he stood outside the door to Mycroft’s office suite, debating if he really wanted to knock or not. On the plus side, he could finally rid himself of his curiosity; on the negative side –

He didn’t have time for further consideration, because Anthea opened the door at that moment with a knowing smile on her face. She broke her gaze with her phone to escort Sherlock inside. “I saw you standing there on the office’s surveillance system.”

Sherlock scowled. “That doesn’t mean that I actually wanted to come in.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? Mycroft just got off the phone with the Korean Ambassador. He’s not expecting you, but he has a little bit of free time right now. Go on in,” Anthea said, never breaking contact with her phone.

Sherlock tried to ignore her and made his way over to the door. He hesitated for only a second and gave two brisk knocks.

His brother’s voice echoed from inside. “Come in.”

Sherlock slowly opened the door, but moved inside the office quickly, shutting the door softly behind him. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft was standing with his back to the door and startled only a little. “Sherlock,” he acknowledged. “What event has occurred to grace me with your presence?”

A pause of silence passed before Sherlock spoke. “John made an interesting comment the other day that I haven’t been able to figure out.”

Mycroft made no response as he turned around and merely waited for Sherlock to continue in his own time.

“He said that he hadn’t heard from you since I came back from the ‘dead.’” Sherlock paused again.

“It’s not as if Dr. Watson and I were terribly social with each other before you left,” Mycroft replied drily.

“That’s not what I’m getting at, and you know it, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, his voice beginning to increase in volume.

“Then enlighten me, dear brother.”

“You haven’t been following me. You removed all the cameras from 221B. You haven’t reoffered John money to spy on me. You’ve basically removed me from your life completely.”

Silence fell across the office.

“Isn’t that what you wanted, Sherlock? I told you once that I’d always let you know when I would let go. And now I’m telling you that I’m letting go.” Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock took a step back in shock. Was that what he wanted? It’s true that he had berated Mycroft for being over-involved in his life weeks ago. But to be completely removed? Sherlock ran over and over it again in his head.

Another heavy silence befell the room. Both men, usually so calm, collected and stoic, fidgeted nervously. Mycroft finally broke the silence.

“I can assure you, Sherlock, letting you go to the extent of completely removing myself from your life is not what I want.”

Sherlock let that sink in. He recalled various times over his life when Mycroft had actually helped him. He couldn’t deny that his life was better off the cocaine. That Mycroft was the only one who was there during their parents’ divorce.

“I . . . don’t think it’s what I want either, Mycroft,” he said softly.

Mycroft’s small smile betrayed how pleased he was at this. “Perhaps we can find some middle ground and try to have a more normal brotherly relationship, Sherlock?”

Sherlock smirked. “Ah, My. Normal is boring.” Mycroft’s eyes flashed with worry. “But we’ve never been normal. I’m sure we can find something that works for us,” Sherlock finished with a genuine smile on his face. A smile that was mirrored in the face of his brother.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is complete, and I plan to update a chapter a week for the next month or so. This first chapter is rather short, but the whole work is about 8000 words, so it picks up in later chapters. Thanks for reading!


End file.
